A young person steps upon the stage. It protrudes past the social limitation of the taboo, like an icebreaker traversing the unspoken world of the human’s most vicious subconscious. It rests the person atop a ledge overlooking the pridelands of the wasted and the downtrodden, dressed in the newest fashions and carrying the trendiest masks. They are to speak. They are to compel and impel and propel forward the axioms of the proud wastelands.
Speak when you are ready, they say. Whether that is the timeless absorption of light into the gravitas of our infinite human suffering, taking Einstein’s theories for the entire distance of the known galaxy, or if that is brief tear drop second. Stand poised and be confident, the speaker of being broken.
They go. They snap their back. They unhinge their maw. And a bubble forms at the cusp of where the teeth clergy end, bubbling. It oozes from their mouth and slips off the stage, inundating the creaking boards and the tinted paint at the circumference of it. It swallows the microphone and jams it deep into their throat. We hear their arrhythmic heartbeat and their collapsing lungs. It’s charged. The ooze, a white tar that will alternate colors to moods and tones to tomes. It slams against the audience, grabbing them by their throats, and forcing itself on their faces. It sinks into their throats and holds their larynx hostage. They are speechless, asphyxiating from the fixation of the unfixable. Their eyes are widened as the ooze thrashes in them and the only sound they can make is a collective hum.
The trapped speaker, the performing freak, unleashes demons into the room through this ooze. They break through and snarl and blood spurts from their arrival and tears baptize them into the new world and they give horrendous roars! They fly about and circle the ceiling, breathing the souls of the damned and foretelling the end of times with the most graphic of lyricism, each rhyme or each pseudo-axiom forcing the room to pulse with a single hum. The organism, the room, can’t contain itself much longer, they feel their tentative grasp on reality slipping, entering into the reality of this demonic ooze that captures them and slathers over their eyes, glazing over and hardening.
Veins are pulsating and eyes are glazing and mouths are swallowing and ears are cracking and minds are melting and demons are flying and the maw of the speaker is cracking and the heart beat is maddening and they won’t stop!
They won’t stop talking about the time they were shot at by the white oppressor police in their morally bankrupt ghetto neighborhood, only to then be molested and raped by the same person in a sad display of a sad allegory for society. And then they discovered that it was really their father, but they hadn’t seen him since birth so they never knew him, this man who is their father that is raping and shooting them because they are a minority/woman. Then the father police took them home and burned “leave forever you nigger faggot!” because, oh yeah, they’re also transgendered polysexual queer. Then they went in discovered, amidst a pot-colored line of heroin crack, that everyone they knew was fake, and that shattered their precious Holden Caulfield world, and the media hates them and the world hates them and the devil exists in the heart of the wealthy whites who wear don’t wear trendy fashions and sport the newest masks.
Then the bubble pops.
The ooze dissipates and the speaker collapses, crying monsoons and the deluge slams against the audience, carrying them in the anguished wave all the way to the wall. It slams them, viciously, and wipes out the entire auditorium. It is a flotsam and jetsam of what was previously a floor of thought. The water keeps slamming and slamming and the speaker cries and cries, clutching at the taut chain lodged in his heart. It is connected to a single ring that has many chains and all of them are connected to every single person in that room, and they’re all very strong and very taut.
They stand up, the audience, their throats crushed and their ribs shattered. They look at the sobbing performer; the demons crawling down his maw. They stare in silence.
A standing ovation of snaps from people who can’t stand. They are mixed between puking to their sides or crying blood from their eyes, but they are snapping. They are pissing themselves and thinking of killing themselves, but they are snapping. They are snapping for the performer, the breaking Gordian knot of trauma, hunched over and coughing their guts onto the stage.
They are snapping because they all know that they would do the exact same thing for the same glory.
All for a standing ovation of snaps.